Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Aside from attending the symposium, Brooks and I plan to spend our anniversary weekend doing what we do best: getting naked, eating, getting naked again, and then eating some more. Maybe a swim or two and a stroll on the beach thrown in there for good measure.
I could not be more excited.
We carry our beers off the ferry onto the dock, where our luggage is waiting. Then we load up into these adorable golf-cart caravan things that take visitors to the homes and condos they own or rent. Cars aren’t allowed on Bald Head; people get around on foot or in golf carts.
Brooks made all the arrangements, so I have no idea what to expect. I’m nervous and excited and a little confused when our caravan hangs the first left I see, putting us parallel to the marina. Then it stops at the entrance to another dock, one that appears to lead to those gigantic yachts I saw earlier.
“This is us,” Brooks says.
I furrow my brow. “Are we staying on a boat?”
He grins. “Maybe.”
“Brooks.”
“Just trust me, okay?”
He grabs my hand and leads me onto the dock. A porter follows closely behind with our luggage.
We walk. And keep walking. The boats closest to the island are smaller, but they get bigger and bigger the farther out onto the water we go.
A man—a shirtless man—appears on the deck of one of the larger boats on our left. Unlike the others, however, the boat he’s on looks old. Not in a bad, beat-up way, but in a cool, classic vintage way, with gleaming wooden sides and a tastefully small American flag waving from the bow.
“Hey, y’all! Welcome to the island,” he says in a thick southern accent. He grabs a nearby baseball hat and puts it on his head backward before leaping barefoot onto the dock.
Brooks extends his hand. “Riley. How the fuck have you been? And when the fuck did you get airbrushed, because those can’t be real abdominal muscles?”
Riley laughs. I try not to stare. The guy really is ripped. The kind of ripped you only see in that beach football scene in Top Gun.
“The spray tan is working, then.” Riley pats his six-pack. “Glad y’all noticed. I been all right. I hear you been just fine.” He looks at me. “I see why that is. Greer, Brooks has told me all about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the miracle worker who made this bump on a log smile.”
“You’ve seen me smile,” Brooks says defensively while I shake Riley’s hand.
“Brooks, I love you like a brother, but in the five years I’ve known you, I’ve only ever seen you kinda-sorta smile once. And that was because I fell overboard.”
“Fishing trip,” Brooks explains. “It’s how Riley and I met.”
“Anyway.” Riley motions to the biggest yacht in the marina, which is pulled up alongside his own classic boat. “She’s all yours.”
My heart skids to a stop. “No.”
“Yes.” Brooks is smiling again. “I chartered it for the weekend. Riley runs the marina here, and he hooked me up.”
“Stop.”
Brooks is leaning down to kiss me again. “I won’t.”
“Y’all have fun.” Riley waves us off. “I’m around if you need me.”
The boat—ship—Beyoncé-level fancy yacht—whatever you want to call it—is magnificent. That’s the only word that comes close to describing the beauty and luxury Brooks and I get to enjoy.
That night, we eat weed-spiked coconut cupcakes I made for dessert and skinny dip in the hot tub on the yacht’s top deck. We barely make it back to our room—a massive suite with a king bed—before Brooks is inside me.
No condom necessary, thanks to the IUD I got this time last year.
We wake up the next morning and go to the symposium for an hour-long meet and greet. It’s a thrill, meeting the minds behind our favorite stories.
Then we board the yacht and go for a long, leisurely cruise. It’s officially our one-year anniversary today; a year ago, Brooks handed me the key to his penthouse. I moved in two months later.
We sip rosé and eat oysters, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean on a glorious sunny day. Then we head downstairs to put on our suits, but we end up going down on each other instead.
After we clean ourselves up, I put on a bikini.
“Yellow polka dots,” he says with a smirk as he pulls on his own swimsuit. “You weren’t kidding.”
We spend the day swimming and eating and fooling around.
At around four that afternoon, we head back to the marina. Brooks pops open a bottle of champagne—a server offers to do it, but Brooks insists—and hands me a glass.
“Wait!” I say, scrambling to my feet. “If we’re going to officially toast to our anniversary, I want to give you your gift.”
Brooks sits, hooking a finger into the strings of my bikini bottom. “You’re gift enough, sweetheart."